“One like this?”
“Well, yes, presumably, if that’s what their books say. Though frankly I don’t see—”
“Who was it intended for?”
“My…my…my wife of course,” stammered Diamond, with a nervous smile, as though it were a stupid question.
“And is the fan still in her possession?”
“Well, em, no. As it happens, I mislaid it. Before I gave it to her.”
“Mislaid it? Mislaid it how, my Lord?”
Now Diamond looked from one to the other of us, calculating, I suspect, if this was the proper time to become indignant about being interrogated in his own morning-room. But Steinhauer’s presence unsettled him, as I had hoped it would. Unsure why exactly the German was there and what influence he might have, His Lordship was reluctant to resort to an aristocratic tantrum.
“Well, I put it away—as one does with Christmas presents—and when I went to retrieve it, it wasn’t there.”
“I see. Is it possible,” I pressed him, “that it was stolen by a member of your staff?”
“Absolutely not. I mean, dash it all, Melville…”
The longer this went on, with every new morsel of information that had to be teased out of him, the less assured Diamond became. His swagger had evaporated; he was as nervous as a cow being led to an abattoir. In my experience, the reaction of the guilty under questioning was nearly always the same, whether the charge was stealing a loaf of bread or murder.
“Then what do you think became of it, sir?”
“I have no idea. It might still be in the house for all I know.”
“Perhaps we should speak to Lady Diamond,” I said, taking the fan back.
“Out of the question,” said Diamond. He bit his lip, aware of how sharply he’d spoken. I said nothing, but let the silence curdle, waiting for Diamond to explain himself and thereby wade farther into the swamp. Steinhauer, God bless him, recognised the tactic and played along.
“That is, she’s indisposed,” blustered Diamond at last. Still neither Steinhauer nor I spoke. “My wife is of a nervous disposition,” Diamond went on, “and I would rather not upset her with matters I can dispense with myself. And in any case, I am not even sure she’s at home at present.”
“Geoffrey?”
The three of us turned towards the double doors at the other end of the room, through which an imperious and stocky woman a little older than Diamond had entered. Lady Diamond’s mousy maid was closing the doors behind her. How long had the two of them been loitering there? I wondered.
I recognised Her Ladyship from her occasional visits to Court, although she had never been one of the brightest stars in that firmament. Her square-shaped face seemed to wear a constant expression of disappointment; her finest feature was her gleaming chestnut hair, which she customarily wore severely pulled back and fastened down, as if it had a life of its own and at any moment might break free and embarrass its owner.
“Ah, my dear, you are home after all,” said Diamond, smiling. There was something glassy and fixed about the smile and the greeting that made me doubt he was pleased to see her, or indeed that he was ever pleased to see her.
“You did not inform me that we had guests,” said Lady Diamond. As ever her accent was hard to place—Prussian, I had always thought—and her words were perfectly polite, but the cold tone of rebuke in her voice was hard to miss.
“These gentlemen are trying to trace the owner of a lost fan,” explained Diamond helpfully. “I was just explaining to them—”
“Chief Superintendent Melville of Scotland Yard, my Lady,” I interrupted. Diamond fell silent, and chewed his lip.
“I have seen you at Court, I believe,” she acknowledged with an imperious nod.
“And my colleague here is Herr Steinhauer, in the service of His Imperial Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm.” Again she nodded, with the merest glance at Gustav; she did not seem overly impressed. “Has Her Ladyship seen a fan like this before?” I continued, spreading the fan out once more.
“I am not sure. May I please have a closer look?”
“My dear!” Diamond laughed, too loudly. “You won’t have seen it before. I bought you a fan just like this one as a gift last Christmas, but silly ass that I am I mislaid it somewhere. This can’t possibly be the same one.”
Lady Diamond looked up from the fan and tutted at her husband, “Why, Geoffrey, you are so forgetful. You did give it to me, don’t you remember?”
Diamond blinked and smiled, as if searching his memory. His lips worked, but no words came out.
“And I lost it,” she continued, “at the opera. I did not have the heart to tell you.”
“You silly thing,” Diamond almost simpered. “As if I would have minded!”
“Which opera?” Steinhauer cut in, addressing the question to Diamond.
“What?” grunted Diamond.
“If His Lordship can remember the opera in question, that might narrow down the dates,” offered Steinhauer, pretending to be helpful. “Which opera house do you and Lady Diamond usually attend?”
“None of them,” said Diamond. “My wife goes. I can’t bear the opera.” He laughed, unamused. “All that damned caterwauling—gives me a headache.”
Lady Diamond smiled indulgently at her husband, then turned to Steinhauer. “It was a few weeks ago, at the Grand. A silly little piece called The Princess Chic. I felt unwell and left early. A day or two later I realised I had left my fan there. This might be it, I suppose.”
“Did you make enquiries at the opera house?” asked Steinhauer. Registering his accent Lady Diamond peered at him sharply, as if trying to place him.
“Really, what would have been the point, after all that time?” she said, with a languid shrug. “But I am grateful you have returned it. Might I offer you a reward?” She sounded quite sincere.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “In any case you cannot have it back just yet.”
“But why not?” protested Diamond.
“It’s evidence in a criminal enquiry, my Lord,” I said. “But rest assured, now we know it’s yours, we’ll be sure to take good care of it. And we’ll return it in due course.” I watched them both closely as I spoke, to see which of them squirmed. Diamond did, I noticed, but then he seemed prone to squirming when events strayed beyond his aristocratic control.
“You can buy me another, Husband,” said Lady Diamond, lightly; her spouse flashed her a smirk utterly devoid of affection.
“Thank you for your assistance, my Lord. Lady Diamond.” I bowed.
“Might I just be so bold—” said Steinhauer. “Your accent, my Lady. I pride myself on my ability to tell anyone’s homeland by their manner of speaking, but when I listen to you I confess I am at a loss.”
Lady Diamond gazed at Steinhauer with much the same disdain she had shown her husband, as if pondering whether to bark at him for his impudence or merely ignore him. “I grew up in Odessa,” she said at last. Steinhauer nodded, and waited for her to elaborate, but it quickly became clear she wasn’t going to. The German snapped his heels together and bowed.
“Thank you, Lady Diamond. I have learned something new today.”
* * *
—
The heavy door swung shut behind us, and Steinhauer and I donned our hats as we strode south. Neither of us spoke until we were well clear of the Diamond residence.
“Lady Diamond is the most indulgent of wives,” said Steinhauer. “To cover for her husband like that. I would swear he never gave her that fan.”
“He did seem remarkably ill at ease.”
“You brought me along to unsettle him?”
“And you did a fine job of it, Gustav.”
* * *
—
“All the other fans are accounted for, sir,” Johnson reported. “Present and cor
rect.” We were back at Scotland Yard; the daylight was already failing, and Sergeant McCarthy was lighting the gas mantles in the hallway outside my office.
“So our purchaser was indeed Lord Diamond,” I said.
“And somehow the fan he bought ended up in the possession of Akushku,” said Steinhauer. “Who gave it in turn to Miss Minetti.”
“Should Johnson and I visit the Grand Opera House, sir?” offered Connolly. “If that’s where Lady Diamond says she lost it.”
“Lady Diamond is lying,” I said. “She’s protecting her husband. Never mind the opera house, I want Diamond’s household watched. Where he goes, who he meets. Take Jenkins and Baum to assist you.”
“Sir.”
Steinhauer shut the door behind them, then planted himself in the seat facing my desk. “Shouldn’t you bring Lord Diamond in for further questioning?”
“His Lordship is a Privy Counsellor, and a friend of the King,” I said. “One does not bring such men anywhere they would rather not go. Not without substantial evidence. Which hopefully my men will uncover.”
“Given time, he might concoct a better story.”
“I pray he does. The more lies a man tells me, the more rope I have to hang him with.”
“Do they hang lords in this country?”
“Not often enough, I admit.”
* * *
—
It was past midnight when I climbed into bed beside my sleeping wife. Diamond was reported to have spent the evening at his club, and come rolling home roaring drunk at eleven; Remington had had two appointments, one with a girl barely old enough to have children, the other a matron swathed in veils. No men at all had been seen entering or leaving his lodgings. The snares were set; I just had to wait. But it was the waiting that tormented me. One day closer to the royal funeral, it felt as if I was the one being hunted, and that if I dozed for a moment I would be caught in my own snare, at the mercy of the wolf.
“Brigid wrote,” said Amelia sleepily. “Her mother’s better. She’ll be back on Friday.”
“I’ll arrange lodgings for Angela,” I said.
I heard a catch in her breathing and sensed bad news coming. “Angela’s gone,” she said. “She left this morning, hasn’t come back.”
Just like that? I wanted to ask. No explanation, no word of thanks? But I just grunted, and after a little while Amelia’s breathing regained its steady deep rhythm.
God help the girl, I thought, remembering what she’d said about seeking out Iosif herself. It was a madcap notion—the man had tried to kill her once already. Should I send men after her? Impossible. We were stretched to the limit as it was, without chasing after a wilful young woman obsessed with revenge. You did your best, I told myself. She’s not your problem anymore.
But I slept uneasily, dreaming of wolves and snares and a girl in a blue hood lost in dark woods.
14
“Good of you to see me so early, Pierre.”
Colonel Blanc grunted as he dabbed his croissant into a blob of raspberry jam. I had not meant it as sarcasm; Blanc was a creature of the night, and this was the crack of dawn for him. We were seated in the dining room of the Coburg Hotel, Blanc in his military uniform, a crisp white napkin tucked into his collar at the neck. Blanc was maybe a decade younger than me, with a thick mane of fair hair he wore swept back, and we were of much the same size. More of his bulk was round his midriff, although his uniform was so beautifully cut it was hard to tell. A fine bit of tailoring, I thought, as I watched the Frenchman polish off his croissant in one bite and lick his thumbs. He and I were old acquaintances in the intelligence trade, but the last time we had spoken was at the 1898 conference in Rome, where ministers and policemen from every state in Europe had met to discuss the anarchist threat. The Frenchman had been less interested in the task at hand—hammering out a definition of “terrorism” on which all nations could agree—than finding the best brothel in which to blow his expenses.
As it turned out, Blanc was the only one not wasting his time. After more than a week of discussion, debate and furious argument none of the illustrious ministers or coppers present could settle on a satisfactory definition of “terrorism,” and none of them could admit why, though radical newspapers were quick enough to oblige. The tactics certain governments used against their own people, these commentators observed, could all too often be classified as atrocities. If defining “terrorism” required some rulers to hold up their own bloody hands, they would rather it went undefined.
“I am up early,” Blanc said at last, “because half the nobility of France is coming to this funeral. And every one of them expects a full military escort, armed and on horseback.”
“What are they so afraid of? The English don’t start fights at funerals. The Irish, now…”
“It is not about personal safety, Melville, it is about looking important. These people are not coming to mourn. This is a chance to mingle, to be seen in gilded company.” He slurped his coffee. “It is a promenade.”
“Perhaps you should send to Paris for extra men.” I sipped my own coffee and ignored the empty plate in front of me. I had been hungry, but the sight of Blanc’s table manners had stunted my appetite.
“Bof! That would take weeks. I would have to put in a request to Gonn, he would demand to requisition men from Jeaume, Jeaume would appeal to Duvalier for more funds…” He picked up the coffeepot and, finding it empty, gestured impatiently to the waiter. “The more men my colleagues have working for them, the more important they feel. We are all competing with each other, keeping secrets from each other, chasing each other’s operatives, more often than not. That damned Jew Dreyfus has done more damage to France than a whole army of Germans.”
I stifled an impatient sigh. The Dreyfus Affair—when the French army was found to have rigged the trial of a Jewish officer falsely accused of spying and let him rot for years on Devil’s Island—was a hobbyhorse of Blanc’s, and I didn’t have time to watch him cantering round the same old paddock.
“Him and the chorus of Jewish newspapers,” Blanc continued. “The Hebrews have no sense of discretion or patriotism—and why should they, when they are not of our race? They will not be happy until they have pulled our civilisation down around our ears, so they can climb up on the rubble and crow. And sell the ruins back to us at a profit.”
“Pierre, I am not here to debate the Jewish conspiracy. I am looking for a man they call Akushku—L’Accoucheur, in your language.”
Blanc stopped chewing, but only momentarily. “I have heard that name.” He nodded. “And that he was here, in London.”
“He’s a hard man to track down. We’re not even sure of his nationality. Some say he’s a Frenchman.”
“Frenchman! He is no Frenchman.”
“What is he, then?”
“He is probably another Jew.” Blanc sniffed. “All these anarchists and terrorists, they are either Jews or the dupes of Jews.”
I let that nonsense pass. I had long since given up arguing with otherwise intelligent men who allowed mere bigotry to colour their judgement.
“What else do you know of him? L’Accoucheur?”
Blanc shrugged. “Troublemaker, terrorist, revolutionary—these are, how do you say, mere flags of convenience. The Jews serve no cause and are loyal to no one but their own race.” He spoke loudly, oblivious to the waiter at his shoulder swapping the empty coffeepot for a full one. I let him carry on ranting until the man had moved on. “You should ask Duvalier in the Sûreté, he has all the files.”
I had done that, of course, days ago. For an intelligence officer Blanc was utterly lacking in guile; he didn’t even enquire why I was asking. The French intelligence services were clearly in an even worse mess than I’d thought.
“I hear you have been working with that German, Steinhauer,” said Blanc abruptly.
“We’ve
been co-operating on security arrangements for the funeral.”
He snorted. “How generous of the German Kaiser to lend you one of his officers.”
“The Kaiser was Her Late Majesty’s grandson.”
“Of course, of course,” said Blanc airily. “But if I were you, I would be careful what I allowed young Herr Steinhauer to see.”
“Why would that be, Pierre?”
Blanc shrugged again, as if it was a matter of the utmost indifference to him. “When the Germans offer to help, when they say they share your interests as neighbours, that is the very time you must be on guard.” He lowered his voice and leaned forwards until I could smell sour breakfast on his breath. “Thirty years ago I was a mere lieutenant, still—comment cela est-ce que se dit?—wet behind the ears, but even then I could see them, insinuating themselves into our society, our culture, even our court, every part of our daily life. I reported my concerns, but, of course, our people insisted there was nothing to worry about—these people were under observation, our own spies had infiltrated the German government, and so all was well. And then, in 1870, came the war, and our army fell apart like papier-mâché, and our agents…poof! They evaporated. As if they had never been. And they never had been, because they were never our agents, they were German agents. The Germans had been preparing for ten, fifteen years, waiting for their moment.” Blanc drained his cup and wiped his moustache. “I do not trust any German, however helpful they may seem to be. And unless you want Great Britain to fall, as France fell, neither should you.”
* * *
—
In the cab back to my office I mused on Blanc’s parting shot. He had merely been echoing my own misgivings about Steinhauer. But hearing them from the mouth of that small-minded buffoon made me wonder if I had been too long in this job and had started imagining conspiracies where there were none. So Steinhauer the Imperial bodyguard really worked for the Intelligence section—so what? The same, after all, could be said of me. So Walther could not find much in Steinhauer’s files—well, Gustav had not been in military service all that long.
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